


Clarity

by mangochi



Series: Clarity [1]
Category: Castlevania (Cartoon), 悪魔城ドラキュラ | Castlevania Series
Genre: Angst boner, But he's in love, Isaac is an edgelord, M/M, Pining, pre-season 2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-09
Updated: 2018-11-09
Packaged: 2019-08-20 21:23:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16563392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mangochi/pseuds/mangochi
Summary: He thinks of that night with the vicious purity of a blade too sharp to hurt. A familiar face, a familiar form, hunched at his table like the craggy outcroppings of the red cliffs far, far away at the edge of the hot sands. There is a stillness to the memory, in the way of the immortal, the movement of breath and blood and time locked in an age long past.





	Clarity

He thinks of that night with the vicious purity of a blade too sharp to hurt. A familiar face, a familiar form, hunched at his table like the craggy outcroppings of the red cliffs far, far away at the edge of the hot sands. There is a stillness to the memory, in the way of the immortal, the movement of breath and blood and time locked in an age long past.

He was just as Isaac remembered, unchanged from the moment Isaac first saw him- but no. No, that was incorrect. No, to say he was the same would be a severe disservice. There was no softness left in whatever set foot in his workshop that night, no clumsy facsimile of humanity.

Isaac had seen ice only once before, at that time. Years ago, at a market, as he passed by the gleaming blocks packed tightly in salt at the back of a merchant’s wagon, he’d stretched out a finger and felt it burn curiously against him. He thought it the coldest thing he’d ever known, until then.

He prefers the coldness, he knows now. He has had enough of the warm things, the soft things, the useless things that were bled from him long past. He blinks and takes in the present, the iron grate beneath his feet swimming into focus. Another swing, a mechanical movement of the arm that has nothing to do with conscious thought, and his mind sharpens again.

_Clarity_.

There is such clarity in the hatred of one’s species. He is the same, but apart, has been so from the day he was born to the night he renounced it all. Confusion on the matter has never been an option. There are times when he looks on Hector with something as close to pity as he can manage. He stands apart from Hector, as well.  

The edge of a black cloak flickers into his field of vision, and he lifts his head to regard the silent soldier before him. He has never bothered to learn their names, these silent guards lingering in the winding corridors of the castle, and he wonders now if they have any at all. Names have power, in this world and any other, and there is nothing powerful in these gray wraiths.

He has known true power, has witnessed it in all of its dark, splendid purity. He has known the weight of its hand on his shoulder and the bloody glint of it in flickering firelight.

“He’s asked for me,” Isaac says. It is both question and answer, and the soldier’s head inclines in the barest of nods. Isaac rises then, his torn skin a distant, ignorable sting. He draws his robes up from around his waist, the fabric clinging to his wet back as he shrugs his arms into the sleeves and begins fastening the clasps. The soldier shifts slightly, the barest of trembles quivering through that formidable silhouette, and Isaac says nothing of it. Some monster indeed, he thinks dispassionately, to be so greatly weakened by a thing like thirst.

Humanity has always been the greatest of monsters, to both fear and destroy such weak things so wantonly.

He straightens his spine, and he goes to attend his master.

***

The study is a small, private affair that surprised Isaac at first. As grandiose as the rest of the castle is, he fully expected a similar space for Dracula’s inner sanctum. Over time, however, he has grown accustomed to it. The close, intimate quarters, the heavy shelves worn with use, the ever flickering shadows on the walls and floor.

From the doorway, he can make out the shape of a large hand curled loosely over the arm of the high-backed chair, the jut of a cloaked shoulder. Isaac slides his foot back to close the door behind him with a quiet, polite click.

Dracula shifts his weight, then, a slither of sound as he acknowledges Isaac’s presence. “You’re here.”

“Naturally.” Isaac crosses the room to lean against the mantel, and he looks down to study his fingernails. Clean, squared, gleaming with a faint sheen of oil. A forgemaster’s hands are his life, and he takes a certain, unspoken pride in his own. He has done unspeakable things with these hands. “Did you wish to discuss the council?” _Council_. A grandiose claim by a squabbling pack of infants, for all of their age and experience. Isaac is reminded endlessly of the dark, circling buzzards of the desert, squawking and fighting over scraps of prized flesh.

“The council…” Dracula gestures wearily. He does most things wearily, nowadays. Isaac cannot blame him. He has the look of a man locked deep in winter’s grasp. “They doubt, still. They should know better by now.”

Isaac lifts a shoulder in a noncommittal shrug. “They will adapt.” It is of no great matter, he knows. He will take any matter into his own hands long before it becomes worthy of Dracula’s concern.

“Do you ever doubt, Isaac?” It is a question utterly free of guile, only genuine curiosity.

“I would make a poor general, if I did,” Isaac says, not without a little dryness. He crosses his arms, tapping a finger against his elbow. “Come now, do you think so little of me?”

“I think the world of you.” It has become something of a joke between them, if either of them were capable of something so trivial. There is not much of a world left, and there will be less of it still, when their work is complete. Dracula seems satisfied enough by his response, in any case. He returns to gazing broodingly into the flames, swallowed again by the weight of his thoughts.

“We can speak of other things,” Isaac offers, when the silence lengthens. “Besides my nonexistent doubt.”

Dracula looks up at him then, and his eyes are still familiar, despite it all. Isaac would follow the vision in those eyes until his dying breath, and most likely beyond even that. “I’ve missed our little conversations.” A slight thaw in the winter now, a hairline fissure in the glacier that has become his very being.

Isaac allows himself a small measure of relaxation. There is no one here to see, besides Dracula, and Isaac has never minded being seen by him. “Our fireside philosophies.” He clasps his hands before him. “Shall we ruminate on the stars again? You mentioned planetary systems, last we spoke, I meant to ask further on the subject.”

Something shifts in Dracula’s gaze, as he looks at Isaac and past him altogether. Isaac has never been fond of these moments, when Dracula seems to slip through time before his very eyes, wavering like a distant mirage.

“He used to ask about the stars,” Dracula murmurs. Sometimes, sense seems to elude him, and Isaac can make neither head nor tail of the things he says.

There is no point in asking for clarification, when the mood settles on him like so. Isaac has become very good at patience, of late, and so he waits. He begins to wonder if Dracula has summoned him here simply to share his melancholy. He takes no offense. It is as worthy a cause as any other part of the war they wage, to share the burden of this great sorrow, this deep anguish that eats at the bone.

There is love too, in the rage, in the despair, in the bloodshed. Isaac was foolish once, to think it could be found anywhere else. To think it a gentle, tender, warm thing to be whispered about before the hearth. No, love is a purity that cannot survive yet in this cruel, tarnished world. Humanity itself has taught him that. It can only exist now in the rending of unclean flesh, in the blind loyalty of an undead, monstrous thing. There is love in the scouring of the earth.

How can they not see, Isaac thinks abruptly. His fingers twitch, his nails catching against in his palm in a rare outward display of emotion. All of them, those damn fools that call themselves generals, the squalling humans cowering in their stinking cities. How can they not see the _love_ in this war, the mercy? It is beautiful, perhaps the only thing left that is beautiful-

“You’re upset,” Dracula says, without warning. He lifts his gaze from the fire, not to Isaac’s face, but to his hands. Isaac uncurls his fingers with deliberate slowness, smoothing them along the sleek black fabric of his uniform.

“I am thinking,” Isaac corrects. He is not upset. He wills his thoughts to settle, ripples drawing in upon themselves until the surface of his inner mind is still, undisturbed.

Dracula’s eyes shift higher, and Isaac meets them steadily. He has worked at this, knows that the weight of that look would send any human, any squealing, soft-minded thing, to their knees. He has purged such weakness from himself. There is the ghost of movement at the corner of Dracula’s mouth. “You think too much, my friend.”

Isaac lifts a brow. He tells himself to not be so pleased by such a thing. The breadth of Dracula’s knowledge may be beyond mortal comprehension, but Isaac is certain he does not know this- the honor, the aching pleasure deep in Isaac’s bones, at hearing two small words. “You have never complained about it before.”

“It’s hardly a complaint.” Dracula is amused now, Isaac can tell. His moods are muted these days, like some great beast shifting in the unseen depths of an ocean, but Isaac has devoted himself to knowing each and every subtle inflection. Some of that distant mirth fades now, as Dracula looks at him, replaced by an odd consideration. “You’ve blooded yourself again.” Dracula has only ever called it that, on the rarest of occasions when he speaks of it, and Isaac has never thought to correct him. In any case, he has no word for it himself.

“Yes,” he says simply. He wonders if it still comes as a surprise. In a castle where only two humans reside, surely the scent of freshly shed blood would not go unnoticed.   

Dracula taps a single finger against the armrest of his high-backed chair, rhythmically, like the ticking of a clock. “Show me.” He utters the command in the manner of one who has uttered so many commands that he no longer considers it as such. Between friends, Isaac supposes, it is also a request. As if Isaac would ever refuse him, anyway. He moves without hesitation, his hands lifting to the clasp of his collar as he turns to face the fire.

“You have not fed in some time,” Isaac says, as if it is some casual observation. It is a measured question, in its own right. He does not know when Dracula feeds, or on what. Perhaps he has transcended thirst altogether, become something like a god amongst his own kind. Isaac wonders, with a sudden, unexpected thrill, how he will taste. He bends and sets the pieces of his armor on the floor beside him, arranging them neatly. Order, above all else.

Dracula lifts his hand in a dismissive gesture. “You, I will never feed on.” He says it almost comfortingly, as if to soothe some panicked sheep, or a trembling child. “Don’t be afraid.” Isaac swallows back a vehement denial, a protest that cuts too deeply to a truth he cannot confront. Not here, not now.

He pulls at his robes harder than is necessary, hoping to mask the foolishness of his disappointment. _Ridiculous_. They fall loose around his waist, his back cold and burning all at once. He acknowledges the fresh sting of discomfort, then lets it wash around him and away. Just a message, that is all. A message to be opened, to be read, to be carefully put away.

Dracula has gone quiet behind him. He is always quiet, but there are times when he falls silenter still, and it is not until those times that Isaac realizes how much he has been allowed to hear before.

“It must hurt.”

“Pain is only an effect,” Isaac answers. It brings something better with it, a blooming of peace in this bloody turmoil.

There are times when he suspects Dracula feels a sense of...not quite envy, no. But something similar. He has never seen Dracula injured, has never seen him bleed. As far as Isaac knows, he is incapable of it. Perhaps there are times when even a god wishes for the vulnerability of a mortal. It’s an understandable fascination, and there are worse things than to be found fascinating by a being that has walked the earth for centuries.

He doesn’t tense through the shock of the first touch, the lightest brush of a fingertip against the unmarked skin of his lower back. The scrape of a long nail, catching against a flake of dried blood there. Isaac takes a breath, long and even, exhales it again. He did not sense Dracula rising from his chair, though he must have, must be standing inches behind him now, a towering, heavy presence.

A log tips over slowly in the fireplace, and the flames snap hungrily at it. Isaac watches the shower of ensuing sparks, so golden that his eyes ache.

“I could heal this,” Dracula murmurs. His voice is closer now, yes, a low rumble in the cool air. “I could make you anew.” He does not sound as if he is speaking entirely to Isaac. Isaac thinks of the woman in the painting, of kind eyes and a gentle mouth. He looks harder into the embers of the fire, until the brightness of it lingers behind his eyelids.

“That would defeat the purpose,” he says. He will forge his own becoming with his own two hands, with his own weak flesh and blood.

Dracula makes an odd sound that takes Isaac a moment to recognize as laughter. It is a strangled, breathless rendition of one, but unmistakable in its nature. He frowns and wonders if he is being ridiculed. The thought stings more than any self-inflicted penance.

“Of course,” Dracula says. “Of course.” He does not touch Isaac again.

***

There is something stirring darkly within him as he lets himself out of the study, his boots ringing out sharply against stone as he makes his way back to his quarters. They are but a short distance away from Dracula’s own rooms; he feels a certain pride in it, though it likely means nothing at all to anyone but himself.

A snake, he thinks. Yes, a snake, writhing beneath his skin, quickening his blood. He fumbles the key and is unsettled by the stab of frustration at his own clumsiness. Gods, he feels hot, his uniform suddenly too tight around his throat.

He hates the heat.

The door swings open and he lets it slam shut behind him.

He thinks of that night. He thinks of that night, of beholding a sorrow so cold that it stole his breath away, froze it dead in his lungs. He cannot help but think of it, cannot help the sly twist of that merciless blade through his very thoughts.

They do not ever speak of it.

Isaac does not think of it.

He does not think, he does not-

_Dracula’s fingertip, achingly gentle on the dip of his spine. A severed nerve here, a nick of bone there, and Isaac would never walk again._

He flattens his back against the wall of his bedchamber, hands tight in the fabric of his robes. The lamps are still unlit, and a sliver of moonlight slices across the flagstones. He closes his eyes to it, envelops himself in the comfort of darkness.

_Such tragedy in those eyes, a hollowness that Isaac finds fascinating. He has seen the same eyes in the creatures he births, from the creatures he loves. He has seen them in his dreams, in the memory of that blood-drenched meeting in the red sands._

_There is death in those eyes, but death means nothing at all to him._

_“Stay the night,” he says. “You’ve come a long way, my friend.”_

_“I have no need for rest.”_

_“Then do not.”_

_A lift of those eyes, then, as they focus again on the present. On Isaac’s hand, palm upturned in a silent offer on the workshop table. He has already offered his allegiance in the eradication of his own kind, why not this as well? An oath of a different sort, a devil’s bargain beneath the moonlight._

It was madness, then. It is madness now.

He should not have bared himself tonight, should not have succumbed to the curiosity of an immortal. His body is stirring, treacherous, corrupted. He tastes sweat on his lip, the saltiness a startling sting on his tongue.

_He twists his fingers through Dracula’s dark hair, feels the strands curling around his knuckles. He has never seen skin so pale, silver like the heavenly bodies above. The sandstone wall is rough against his back, where the tender scars there have just begun to heal over. Dracula is a shadow before him, around him. He draws the light to him and swallows it whole, and Isaac is blinded by the sheer power crowding against him, that large hand tucked so carefully around his waist. They are close, so close, and he longs-_ needs _\- to be closer still._

“Master,” he breathes, then bites it back, shoves a palm over his mouth to cover his ragged exhales. Vampires have sharp ears, he mustn’t forget. The thought of being heard- would Dracula hear? His knees threaten to fold.

_“Am I your master?” There is a bleakness to the amusement Dracula presses to his jaw, his scarred cheek. He feels the faint imprint of teeth, a veiled threat that never lands. “Am I, Isaac?”_

_“Always.”_

His cock is a painful, throbbing demand beneath his robes. He cannot will it away, this betrayal, this cruel reminder of his damned inferiority. He drops a hand to squeeze at himself, and no, this is much, much worse.

It feels only appropriate to kneel. The stone is cold and unforgiving beneath him, and he grinds the heel of his palm between his legs, desperate for relief. This is a different sort of pain, one that eats away at his resolve in a way that no amount of bloodletting will.

_Dracula’s knee between his, his thigh an unyielding pressure. Isaac clutches at his cloak, muffling his groans into the sleek, gleaming darkness._

_“Look at me.” A hand curling loosely around his throat, the edge of a nail digging beneath his jaw. He swallows, feels the careful pressure around his trachea. Dracula’s hair falls around them both, muting the lamplight. There is something there, beneath the words, something delicate and obscenely vulnerable. “Isaac. Look.”_

His breath comes in a choked, sharp sob. He shoves aside the clinging folds of his robes, splaying his knees wider, and strokes a thumb roughly along the length of his cock, hard and trapped beneath the material of his trousers. It is almost enough. He thinks of the tip of a dagger-sharp nail balanced on his skin, a singular point of contact, of guidance. He thinks, deliriously, of Polaris.

_The faintest of groans, buried against the scars on Isaac’s cheek. “You humans,” Dracula mutters. There is gravel in his voice, scraping and rough. Isaac’s pulse pounds against his palm, his hips hitching into that unforgiving pressure. “So soft, so-”_

_Is it blasphemy, Isaac wonders, to silence a god? He takes the kiss, nonetheless, feels Dracula tense for a single moment of surprise against him. It is no sweet, languid kiss between lovers. It is something, he thinks, of a contract. One night, one night that they will never speak of again. Isaac would kill every last human in this forsaken land for a taste of this._

_He shakes apart then, feels it tear viscerally at his ribs, his spine, his heart._

“ _Dra_ -” He swallows the gasp, feels it cutting away at him from the inside out. Dracula’s name is a mouthful of blades, and he holds it there on his tongue. He’s damp with sweat, his throat tight and his heart pounding a war beat in his chest.

The fever is easing, the heat that seized him so suddenly, so rudely, finally ebbing away. It leaves a trembling, hurting void behind, one that the coldness gratefully fills. He lifts a hand and focuses slowly on the glint of sticky residue between his fingers, registering the growing discomfort of warm wetness staining his clothing. _Filthy_. It is just as well he did not allow Dracula to heal him; he is a lifetime away from deserving to be whole.

A sudden image, of Dracula’s mouth cool and wet around his fingers, the graze of death against his skin as Dracula tastes him, cleans him.

Isaac clenches his hand into a tight fist. He stands there a moment longer, until the vision fades. then he crosses the room to the washbasin. He scrubs his hands until they sting, his fingertips numb and his knuckles stiff with cold.

He looks up into the round, simple mirror on the wall. There is an expression there he neither recognizes, nor cares for. He watches his lip curl in distaste, and he stares at his reflection until it smooths into something more refined, more palatable.

Order. Order, above all else. His hand itches for the weight of a whip.

He will seek penance in the morning, he decides. In the early moments of dawn, when the castle is still and slumbering. Now...now he is only weary. There is time enough. When the work is done, when the world is reborn into the hands of a dark god, of a loving god, there will be nothing left but time.

And perhaps then...perhaps…another bargain can be made.

 

**Author's Note:**

> anyway, still cryin abt the end of s2  
> catch me on twitter @_mangochi
> 
> CATCH ME SOBBING OVER THIS FCKIN GORGEOUS ART!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  
> DONE BY [@IS44Cbb](https://twitter.com/IS44Cbb/status/1062076205027995648) on twitter


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